


what you can’t give away you must carry with you

by theappleppielifestyle



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 21:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: When they’re almost in the car, one of the reporters get s a lucky shot and says something in between the cacophony that somehow isn’t overlapped by twenty different voices: “Today is the anniversary of Obadiah Stane’s tragic boating accident. You two were very close, family even- any comments on his passing?”Tony stiffens. Steve wouldn’t have been able to notice if he wasn’t pressed up against his side, but he is and he does.(Or, Tony tells Steve about Obadiah.)





	what you can’t give away you must carry with you

**Author's Note:**

> There is a part in this fic which references a deleted scene in Iron Man where Tony reaches out to help a dying Obadiah only for him to try to drag Tony down with him. If you’re confused about it, that’s where that comes from.

 

Steve learns early on that reporters like to pry up bits of the past. They do it less with him- something about being respectful, which is a surprise. From what Steve’s seen from paparazzi in this century, he would’ve guessed that they’re incapable of most sorts of human decency.

This is mostly because he’s seen them around Tony. With Tony, Steve gets why people call them vultures- they crowd him and scream questions, comments, anything to get a reaction out of him. It’s appalling, and Steve gets in the way any time he can, which often leads people to shrink back and pause in their assault, if not stop entirely.

In Steve’s opinion, it’s one of the big pluses in terms of the whole ‘reverent respect’ thing that came with being a previously-dead national icon.

When the paparazzi swarm Tony as he comes out of a charity gala, Steve is right at his side. He smiles politely at the cameras and reminds himself that he’s not allowed to hit them, not even that guy who’s yelling about Tony’s pubes for some reason. Instead he presses his shoulder to Tony’s and hopes Tony finds even a nugget of comfort from it, and keeps his eyes on the car that’s a dozen steps away.

When they’re almost in, one of the reporters get s a lucky shot and says something in between the cacophony that somehow isn’t overlapped by twenty different voices: “Today is the anniversary of Obadiah Stane’s tragic boating accident. You two were very close, family even- any comments on his passing?”

Tony stiffens. Steve wouldn’t have been able to notice if he wasn’t pressed up against his side, but he is and he does.

Steve assumes he’s going to brush her off the same way Tony’s been brushing them all off: some wayward comment about something unimportant, but instead Tony says, “I’ve made comments on his passing, I held a press conference about it eight years ago, go find it if you want something to write about,” all without looking at the guy once.

Steve climbs in the car after him and closes the door. He looks over at Tony, who is busying himself with undoing the top button of his suit.

“Where to, Boss,” Happy asks from the front seat.

Tony kneads a hand briefly to his forehead, then drops it into his lap. “Home. Thanks, Hap.”

The car pulls away from the curb, away from all the flashing lights and clamouring questions, and Steve lets himself breathe out in relief. He keeps watching Tony, who now tilts his head back against the seat in an uncharacteristic display of- well, Tony would call it weakness. Steve would call it taking a break of playing Tony Stark, playboy billionaire genius.

Well. Not so much playboy anymore, with the committed boyfriend, but still.

Steve nudges their knees together and tries for a comforting smile when Tony glances over.

“All good?”

“All good,” Tony says.

Steve assumes this is going to be one of those moments where Tony needs time and he’ll shut Steve out to get it, but then Tony reaches over and takes Steve’s hand without having to look down at it. Steve turns his hand over so he can wind their fingers together and squeezes lightly.

Steve doesn’t press him on it, not until they get to the Tower and are in the elevator that will lead them to their room.

“That Obadiah question rattled you, huh,” Steve says.

Tony makes a noise that could be a laugh if he put more force behind it. “Yeah. Every year some schmuck asks about it and somehow I’m still taken off guard. Every fucking time.”

Steve takes his hand again. He’d let it go on the walk from the car to the Tower. “He was your uncle, right? Or as good as.”

Tony doesn’t reply for a second. When he does, it’s flat: “As good as, yeah.”

Steve goes over what he knows about him in his head: one step down from Tony in the company. Longtime friend of Howards, which already makes Steve side-eye the guy. Howard in his later years, he’s learned, was not a person that Steve would like. More a person he’d like to punch.

“Sounds complicated,” Steve offers, because he doesn’t need much information to know that Tony has mixed feelings about him.

Tony hums in assent. His hand is still and warm in Steve’s and the rest of him is closing off, even though Steve thinks Tony does want to talk about it.

He gives his hand another squeeze. Tony smiles- barley, a hint of it, and then it’s gone and he looks over at Steve and swallows. “You read the SHIELD file on him?”

Steve shakes his head and Tony smiles again. This time it’s bitter. “Damn. Would’ve made this easier. Yeah, he orchestrated the Afghanistan kidnapping. Ow.”

The last part is directed down towards their hands. Steve’s grip had tightened, apparently enough to the point of pain, and he apologizes as he loosens his grip.

“Better,” Tony says towards their hands. He rubs a thumb over Steve’s knuckles, watching the movement as he continues, “Trying to kill me didn’t stick, obviously. So he, uh, tried again. You hear of Iron Monger?”

“Vaguely.”

“Yeah. That was him.” Tony gives him another smile, bitter and brittle, and lets go of Steve’s hand as the elevator doors slide open.

“Trying to kill me, part two! That one didn’t stick, either. I killed him right back.”

He’s undoing his tie as he says it, voice casual even with his fingers shaking. It’s a small tremble, but enough to make it difficult to undo his buttons when he moves down to his shirt.

“Shit,” he says as his fingers slip on one of them.

Steve walks up and covers Tony’s hands with his own, trying to meet his eyes and failing when Tony looks away, his jaw locking. Still, he lets Steve undo his buttons even as he keeps his gaze away.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” Steve tells him as he undoes the buttons. After the last one, he sets his hands on Tony’s waist and rubs a line into his hipbone through his clothes. “But I’m glad it’s you here and not him.”

Another smile from Tony, not entirely pleasant. “Mm. You know it was actually Pep who killed him? Under my orders, but still. She sent a volt of electricity through him enough to kill him. And it very nearly did. He was going to fall- which was what got him in the end, or at least put the last nail in the coffin- and then he reached out. Didn’t say anything. And I- he was going to fall. So I reached back. He grabbed my hand, and- uh, tried to drag me down with him.”

Tony says all of this without meeting Steve’s eyes. Which is probably good- Steve doesn’t think Tony would like whatever expression is showing on Steve’s face right now.

Tony’s throat clicks. “I took my gauntlet off- we were both in armour, he built this really crappy knockoff version of mine- and he dragged it right down to his death. Trying to kill me part 3, I guess.”

“Tony-”

“Or four. Honestly I stopped counting at some point. I think the biggest kick in the ass was when he took the reactor out.”

Steve hopes he’s broadcasting less murderous rage than he feels. “He took-”

“Yeah!” Tony laughs and it’s _awful_. He brings a hand up absently, pressing it over the reactor through his shirt like he’s checking it’s there. “Totally artlessly, by the way. Had to build this- this fucking contraption and paralyze me so he could use it on me and take it out.”

Steve takes a second to breathe. He tries very hard not to imagine that, but it’s impossible not to: Tony with a big metal hole in his chest, Tony paralyzed and conscious and staring into the face of the guy who’s been family for his whole life. He was Howard’s close friend since before Tony came along- had he been there when Tony was born? He’d watched him grow, that’s something Steve knows for sure from photographs- he’d watched Tony grow from a baby to a kid and from a kid to a teenager, then to an adult, and then he’d ordered his death and taken it into his own hands to deliver it when it didn’t succeed.

Steve closes his eyes, willing the image away. “How did you-”

“Oh, the paralysation wore off eventually. After a while I had enough range of motion to crawl my way to the lab and cram an outdated reactor in. Worked okay. Enough to kill him back, anyway.”

Jesus.

Steve raises his hands from Tony’s waist to his face, cupping it so Tony’s eyes finally turn to him. They’re shiny with unshed tears, which isn’t uncommon when Tony gets upset- Steve can count on his hand the number of times he’s seen Tony actually cry, but it’s not unusual for his eyes to well up as Tony tries desperately to force them back.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t imagine that kind of betrayal- he doubts Tony can, either, even with Tony’s history, which involves a smattering of betrayals: videos leaked, secrets told in confidence. Steve knows that Tony learned pretty early on to keep things close to his chest if he didn’t want them leaked over magazines. Rhodey had once told Steve about a time at MIT when Tony had asked Rhodey to please not tell anyone all those things Tony had drunkenly said the night before, and Rhodey had thought it was weird how insistent Tony was being, how strange it was for a kid to offer him actual _money_ about this, only to find out that three months back Tony had admitted something to a girl he’d thought was a friend only to find it in an article days later.

That’s one kind of betrayal. This kind, the kind where someone you loved and trusted actively tries to murder you out of his own free will- Steve can’t imagine that. He thinks it’d destroy him.

Tony’s jaw works and keeps working, a muscle fluttering repeatedly as his gaze tracks over Steve’s face, then drops to the carpet beside them.

“God,” Steve says, instead of the tirade of other things pushing against his teeth, things he isn’t sure Tony would like to hear: _How the hell did you ever trust anyone ever again_ and _I’d fucking kill him if he was still around, I’d rip his tongue out of his head. I’d break his fingers- maybe not, I’d get Natasha to do it, she’d be willing and happy to, we all would-_

“Yeah,” Tony mutters. He’s stiff under Steve’s hands; his shoulders tight and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I’m so sorry you have to put up with reporters asking you about him,” is what Steve hears himself say. It’s accurate, at least. Steve has never been good at this kind of stuff.

Tony nods and Steve pulls his face up gently so he’s looking at him again, though Tony looks reluctant about it.

“You don’t deserve that,” Steve tells him. “You didn’t deserve any of it. You-”

He can’t put it into words and he isn’t sure if this is a moment where he should lay off or pull Tony in, but he takes the chance: he drags Tony into a hug, squeezing  hard enough that he worries it’s too much, but Tony instantly starts squeezing back so Steve thinks he’s in the clear.

Tony makes a sound, almost a gasp but not quite. Steve would call it a sob, but it’s not wet enough, and all Steve can think of is Tony reaching out a hand to help the man who just tried to kill him several times over, who paralyzed him and left him to die.

On one of the rare times Tony has talked to Steve about his mother, he’d mentioned that she’d once told him to ‘be careful of that big heart of yours.’ He’d been on painkillers when he told Steve this- he’d been nearly crushed by a collapsing building while rescuing a stray dog- and Steve isn’t sure if Tony even remembers. This is what Steve thinks of as he’s holding Tony; that and Tony’s outstretched hand.

Tony mumbles something into Steve’s shoulder, quiet enough that he’d miss it without his superhearing: “I miss him sometimes. Which is fucked. He wouldn’t miss me if it was the other way around.”

Then, louder: “I was- I was so _convinced_ he would never hurt me on purpose.”

A wave of protectiveness crashes over Steve as he smooths a hand down Tony’s back: he wants, not for the first time, a time machine. Not to go back to the 40s this time, but to go back and kill Stane before he could get to Tony. To knock Howard around for bringing him into Tony’s life; for not realizing what level of scumbag his friend was.

“You don’t have to go through that again,” Steve assures him.

Tony snorts, pulling back. Steve lets him.

“Touch wood,” Tony says. “Never can tell Clint’s motivations, he could be playing us all for snacks and shelter-”

“Hey.” Steve grips his shoulders. “We’d kill and die for you. We’d kill Obie in a second if we could. Any of us would sacrifice ourselves for you without a second thought. I’d- I’d cut off my own hands before doing anything that hurt you.”

Tony blinks. The sheen of brightness hasn’t left his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s half confirmation, half question.

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve says, pouring every ounce of conviction he has into it.

Tony nods slowly. His eyes track Steve’s face. “Kind of twinging my shoulders, big guy.”

“Jesus.” Steve releases him, hands hovering around his arms, unsure if he should touch.

Tony’s already shaking his head. “It’s fine. You can-”

He cuts off as Steve steps in and takes his face in his hands again. Steve looks at him and Tony closes his eyes like he can’t handle whatever must be in Steve’s gaze, breathing going harsh for a moment before smoothing out.

It goes ragged again when Steve leans in and kisses his closed eyes. “Fucking hell, Steve.”

“Okay?”

Tony doesn’t open his eyes, but he nods. “Yeah, it’s- it’s okay. You’re just. A lot.”

“I try,” Steve says, leaning their foreheads together and putting his arms around him again.

Tony mirrors him, breaths coming loud but steadier now.

When his breathing steadies entirely, quiet enough that Steve has to strain to hear it, he presses a long kiss to Tony’s forehead. “Hey. Want to get food and watch bad TV?”

Tony laughs weakly. “You read my mind,” he says, which means Steve is right- when Tony gets like this he either wants to crash into bed and sleep for twelve hours, or he wants to be kept up long enough that he burns off his nerves.

 Tony continues, “Nachos and Parks and Rec?”

“Good nachos or bad nachos?”

Tony pauses. “I could stand to cook.”

“Good nachos it is,” Steve says, and they head to the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kitchen is mostly empty when they get to it, apart from Natasha making tea in the corner.

“Good gala,” she asks, and then she glances up at them and her face does something that cues Steve in to her knowing everything from one look at them both. “Ah.”

Steve changes the subject fast: “Experimenting with tea again?”

Natasha goes with it, nodding down at the brew she’s standing over. “Might as well. I’m nearly done if you want me to head out.”

Steve looks over at Tony, who is already saying, “Nah, brew as long as you want. Hey, Steve and me are making nachos if you want some, the kind you actually cook for.”

“Are you offering or bragging?”

“Depends.”

Natasha smiles, picking up her mug and holding it to her chest. “I’d love some. If you’re up for some sub-par TV while you eat, Thor and I are out in the lounge watching _Fish of the Day_.”

“Your continued interest in fishing shows continues to baffle us all,” Tony calls to her as she leaves the kitchen. It still sounds a little stilted, like he’s trying too hard, but his smile is genuine.

Steve watches that smile with that same protectiveness from before- if he had it his way, Tony would smile like that all the time. As it is, he’ll just have to try as hard as he can to get that smile.

He kisses Tony’s cheek and grins when Tony’s smile widens. “I’ll get the fridge ingredients.”

Tony nods, heading over to the cupboard to get out onions, chips and tinned pasta sauce. “Thor will want some, yeah?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I know, I heard it as I was saying it. When doesn’t Thor want nachos? Okay, so this batch is gonna be a lot bigger than we thought. We might run out of chips.”

“We’ll survive,” Steve assures him.

 

 

 

 

 

Cooking with someone something Steve never thought he’d like so much. He’d cooked a bit in the 30s and 40s, but only to boil chicken or do some other banally simple thing that didn’t require time or thought. The act of spending time in a kitchen with someone, chopping or frying or baking and talking all the while, is something Steve’s done a lot of since waking up from the ice, and he’s enjoyed it more than he ever thought he would. Once he learned more than the absolute basics, of course- there had been a period of frustration while he learned things like seasoning and what the hell broiling was, but he’s now proud to say he’s a semi-competent cook.

Just as well that Tony had been in the same boat. Around a week after the Avengers had all moved in together, during that time when everyone was still getting to know each other and unsure of their place, the smoke alarm had went off and everyone had piled around the kitchen to find Tony stumbling out of it, hacking away the smoke. When they asked him what happened, he told them that he’d wired the oven to go higher than ovens can physically go so his frozen pizza would be ready in 5 minutes instead of half an hour.

They’d cleaned up the mess, and Bruce ended up teaching the team how to make pizza from scratch. Back then, that had been the most fun Steve had had since waking up in this century.

He doesn’t remember who taught them how to make nachos- it might’ve been a recipe online, now that he thinks of it.

He and Tony chop the onions side by side, and Tony takes over when Steve has to go the sink and wash his hands and wipe his eyes- the serum hadn’t done anything to protect him from onion fumes, he’s long since learned.

They heap the onions into a pan, sliding them around with a wooden spoon until they’re brown, then dump the mince in until that’s brown, then stir in the pasta sauce.

“We should learn how to make this,” Steve says as he pours it into the pan.

Tony looks over from where he’s on stirring duty. “From scratch? Eh.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause we can already get it ready-made.”

“Same with pasta, but you liked making that.”

“True,” Tony admits. He gives the pan another stir and then stops, letting it bubble. “Shit, we didn’t preheat the oven.”

“I’m on it,” Steve says, leaning around Tony to switch it on. “Hey, what’s the difference between fan bake and bake?”

“I assume fan bake is fan powered.”

“Truly a genius. I’m so blown away by you sometimes.”

“I feel like I should make a blowjob joke but sadly I can’t think of any. Just imagine I made a really good one.”

“Will do,” Steve says.

The pan continues to bubble and they both watch it. Steve thinks this is a good time to get the plates, but instead he leans his hip and then his whole side into Tony, relishing the simple warmth of him, his solid presence beside him, the ease of it all after the tenseness of before. Once upon a time, Tony would’ve locked himself in his workshop and been unable to meet Steve’s eyes for days after something like this. Now he looks over at Steve and smiles in a warm, open way, not saying a word but communicating his gratefulness through the tenderness in his eyes; in how he reaches over and touches Steve’s elbow.

Steve covers Tony’s hand with his own and squeezes. _I’m so grateful for you_ , he wants to say, but it sounds overly sentimental in the midst of nacho-making, so instead he kisses Tony and says, “I’ll get the plates.”

“You do that,” Tony says, and by the tone of his voice Steve guesses that the words are also a stand-in for something more sappy.

They arrange the chips on a plate and then pour the mince on, then heap chips on top of that because Natasha likes hers the least amount of soggy as possible. Then they put four plates in the oven and stand back, eating mince from the pan they left over for this exact reason.

“Been thinking about experimenting with baking,” Steve tells Tony between mouthfuls.

Tony hums and swallows. “What kind of baking?”

“Sweet stuff. Cakes, muffins. Never had a carrot cake before.”

“What, never-never? Fuck sake, Steve, we’ve introduced you to so much food and there’s still so much you haven’t eaten.”

“Haven’t eaten lots of kinds of cakes, Tony.”

“I know. It’s a travesty.”

Steve reaches out and wipes some tomato out of Tony’s beard.

“Thanks,” Tony says absently, and then not-so-absently he catches Steve’s hand and kisses it.

Steve’s stomach squirms pleasantly. Tony’s a sweet guy at his core, but he’s rarely this openly sappy.

“Aw,” Steve mumbles.

Tony grins. “Shut up. You’re the one with all the- eyelid kissing, whatever. Gave me a toothache.”

“Oh no. I’ll kiss it better,” Steve says, deadpan, and tries to quell his smile enough that he can give Tony a proper kiss. It doesn’t work at first, but then Tony starts clutching at him and some of that desperate sadness from before comes back and Steve’s smile gives way. He clutches back, because he thinks Tony needs this, and from the muffled noise Tony makes into his mouth he’s pretty sure he’s right.

When they pull back, Tony’s breathing has gone funny again. “I’d kill and die for you too. All of you.”

Steve nods. Their foreheads brush. He can’t quite think of the right reply to that, but he has to say something, so he settles on, “We’ve got your back. Always. We’re gonna do our best never to hurt you and if anyone does, we’ll kick their fucking teeth in.”

“So violent,” Tony says under his breath, but his smile has started coming back into his face. He takes a long, bracing breath and gives Steve another kiss before leaning back. “God, those nachos smell _good_. This was a great decision.”

“Nachos and fishing shows,” Steve nods. “Doesn’t get better than this.”

 _Fishing shows_ , Tony mouths. Out loud, he says, “Think we can convince them to change the channel? I’m still feeling like Parks and Rec.”

“We did make them nachos,” Steve points out.

“Mm. True.” Tony turns around to check the oven, starting to talk about fishing shows again and his utter confusion to Thor and Natasha’s newfound love for them, and Steve listens to him talk and breathes in the smell coming from the oven and thanks everything that ever happened to bring him here to this moment.


End file.
